cake
by somandalicious
Summary: Being in love was a slice of pie, but admitting it was an entirely different recipe. DMHG.
1. Part I

_**Disclaimer: **The following is based on actual events. Only the names, locations, and events have been changed. And completely thieved from Jo Rowling. So I called people to call her people and her peoples people told my people's people that I had her informal permission to borrow them. And I totally put hints of RHPS and I stol a name from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, can you find them? Please forgive any blatant thievery._

_**Warnings:** EWE. Excessively AU, sort of when it came to DH, I picked and chose what worked with my story. This story is sometimes funny, sometimes angsty, and sometimes heartwarming/wrenching. But always amusing. Sexy sex, sex, sex. Here it goes into your brain._

_Part I_

Hermione Granger was lying. Fibbing, bluffing or what ever particular verb preferred, albeit all definitions remained similar anyway. Besides. It was obvious. She had a tell. As every human being on the planet is wont to have. An insignificant, spasmodic, muscular contraction of the face or extremities. Sometimes, the tic was so imperceptible that one either needed to be trained in discerning it or was entirely too familiar with the subject. So closely bonded; emotionally, mentally, spiritually that it was second nature to read their behavior like a god-damned novel.

So when she spoke those words, four simple words actually, Draco Malfoy's gaze dropped immediately from her large brown eyes to her small hand. The right hand, and more accurately, the digits topped with chipped, hot pink nail lacquer. He blinked once. Quickly. For there was her thumb playing swift erratic circles against her forefinger, just as he had anticipated. As if her suspended breath depended on the adeptness in which the whorls were able to interlock correspondently.

With a beat of hearts, he limited his scope of vision, bit the inside corner of his mouth softly, and chose a careful retort, "If that is the case, then by all means, leave." He pulled the white washroom door open and leaned against it casually. His forearm rested horizontally above his head, his agile body angled carelessly, and ankles crossed nimbly. The corners of his mouth shrugged downward apathetically. "I shan't be in your way whilst you pack."

Hermione's lips parted in disbelief, and she tilted her heart-shaped face with side-long scrutiny. "Correction, _I_ shan't be in _your_ way whilst _you_ pack."

"I'm not leaving," he stated simply.

Her hands clutched the lid of the commode where her body was adroitly perched, and said, "I'm paying the note on the cottage, ergo, it's mine."

"Only partly."

Her smooth forehead flickered with lines of skepticism, "Partly?!"

"Yes. Half." His timbre was stoic, like a robot, void of any real emotion or expression.

"Half?"

"Half. And if it's that much ado, I'll write you a reimbursement."

She scowled and bared her teeth at him. "It'll only bounce."

"Unlikely."

"Likely."

"Impossible."

"Probable."

Draco sighed deeply and with a wave of his hand, Summoned his cheque-book and began to write a rather hefty withdrawal, payable only to the order of one Miss Hermione Jean Granger. One that would not overdraft his account in the least. Not even if she repeated the withdrawal a billion times. But it would soothe her psyche to ignore that tiny factoid.

With pursing lips and wiggling toes, she eyed him cautiously. She didn't want his money. She didn't want the cottage. At least, she didn't want it without him. All she wanted was for him to succumb to the ascending tristesse that hunched his broad shoulders defensively. She wanted him to simply break down and admit that his sternum was nearly bursting with sorrow and heartache. Didn't his lungs burn from withholding painful gasps of impending regret? She abhorred the idea that he could be so callous. That he could shut his heart down with a blinking eye, while her body inwardly thrashed from those exact and tumultuous emotions. Couldn't he just admit he cared that she was unhappy?

Draco proffered the slip of paper daringly and his grey irises churned tempestuously, dangerously betraying a peek of tragic misery in their shadows.

Fiery red anger reared from just below her thoracic diaphragm, because it just wasn't fair that he snubbed the opportunity to expose his hurt. He seemed hell bent on appearing to not give a flipping shit about the entire situation. Psychotically Hermione snatched the cheque from him and quite hectically began tearing it into meaninglessness. Sobs escaped in her exasperation and soon the dooming saline dripped passed her lashes until she was a quivering, bawling fool perched upon frigid porcelain. A small snow of his absolute insensitivity littered the bathroom floor.

Tucking her knees up under her chin, she wrapped her arms tightly around them, just under the knobby joints. "You're so cruel," she mumbled dejectedly. Defeat eating her pride like a starved manticore. Making her small and weak.

And he itched to tell her that she was cruel also. Cutting his heart and soul into bits, shredding it with four plebeian words that had a thousand meanings, a million synonyms, and a googolplex of heartbreak. She had no right to call him cruel. No. Not when she was leaving him. He dared a peek of his emotions and sneered dolefully, menacingly, "And you doubted I would be anything less?"

Drawing in a haggard breath, her hand shot out blindly and she proceeded to lob the nearest object at his handsome face. Because she had hoped he would have been a bit more empathetic. She had in fact doubted he would be that spiteful. Ideally, Draco should have begged her to stay. Preferably, Draco should have mentioned her absurdness and asked her to be rational so that they could work it all out. Unfortunately. Her Draco never talked problems over. Her Draco never told her he loved her. He remained passive and indifferent. Always. Regrettably.

Speaking of the unlucky, her aim was bad and the stainless steel soap-dish missed his skull and collided heavily with his shoulder, and the bar of soap slapped his cheek, leaving a frothy, iridescent film.

Her stomach did a joyous herkie that would have surely received full marks from The American National Cheerleading Association. However, her bliss was short lived because Captain Botox's reserve had finally cracked.

"Shit! You fucking sociopath!" His wiped his palm furiously at his cheek; eyes squinted in astonishment and chagrin. "What was that for?"

She stood then, hands balling at her sides, elbows locked and chest protruded in a defensive battle stance. "To put a chip in that frosty Malfoy baloney, that's what. Seems to have worked, you…you…prat." Because it wasn't in her nature to call him hateful names.

His eyes widened and he inhaled deeply and wildly through his nose. "What. The. Fuck? First you tell me that you are leaving and then you assault me because I'm letting you?" And it was really _that_ mental. Constantly. His witch was seriously imbalanced. Fickle, he had always supposed, as was her prerogative. But his understanding and patience had crested. She had taken it entirely too far. She was never satisfied. She had gone mad with it.

Case in point was currently shaking her wayward curls frantically, palms rubbing roughly at her eyelids and temples. "I didn't say I was leaving!"

"You implied it!" he growled forcibly. "You said, and I fucking quote, 'This isn't working out.' Right? 'This' as in us, our relationship. You quit us. You waved the proverbial white flag. So you get to leave. And now preferably, before I throw you out! I'm done. DONE!" He felt the tension balling his muscles, aching his neck and shoulders. He was suffocating from the stiffness of the pain. But mostly, his sore heart couldn't bear to look at her anymore. Because he did want her to stay. But pride wouldn't allow him to plead with her about it. He had spent too much time groveling and it had changed nothing. He was better off without the disturbance and he wanted it gone from his life.

She sniffed three times, nodded twice, and pushed pasted him harshly. Because maybe she was tired too. Maybe she had grown weary of his boldness. His harshness. Yes. She had. Hermione had been beaten by the game. Time to pack up and go. So she grabbed a few belongings and pulled on footwear before slamming her way out of the cottage. Out of his life. Out of their relationship.

And Draco?

He let her go.

Let her pass, the jarring of her elbow rippling in his gut. With all the confusion, anger, and pain shaking his cold hands as his face fell into them. His knees buckled, and he slid ungracefully against the door.

It was a biting autumn night and the crazy bint had left his home in nothing but his boxer shorts, a jumper and galoshes. He partly hoped she caught a cough-due-to-cold. He mostly worried about where she would end up.

Really, he reckoned that it didn't matter. She would come back. She always came back.

Standing, he dazedly swaggered to their bedroom, and paused at the foot of their unmade bed. Sheet's tangled and twisted. Promises of everlasting cohesion was woven into the folds and fibers. Dreams of a perfect forever creased and knotted from their bodies.

Tomorrow he'd smooth them over and they'd disappear.

Gone for always.

Because when she came back, he wouldn't let her stay.

At least he had nearly himself convinced of that when he opted to sleep on the sofa. And just before somnolence crept upon him, Draco Malfoy believed he was done with Hermione Granger. For now.

_I'd like to thank my beta's: moxicrimefightr, floorcoaster, and spadul. Each of you is amazing, wacky and everything a narcissistic writer such as me could wish for. I am totally and completely the luckiest kid ever because I have the most brilliant team to help me achieve this goal. Thank you for indulging me._


	2. Part II

_**Disclaimer: **__The following is based on actual events. Only the names, locations, and events have been changed. And completely thieved from Jo Rowling. So I called people to call her people and her peoples people told my people's people that I had her informal permission to borrow them. And I totally put hints of RHPS and I stol a name from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, can you find them? Please forgive any blatant thievery._

_**Warnings:**__ EWE. Excessively AU, sort of when it came to DH, I picked and chose what worked with my story. This story is sometimes funny, sometimes angsty, and sometimes heartwarming/wrenching. But always amusing. Sexy sex, sex, sex. Here it goes into your brain._

_Part II_

The olive-green Oxford Chesterfield was settled in the center of the sitting room on the edge of the Turkish rug facing the fireplace with a large oak coffee table in between. It was a standard two-seater, with well-stuffed cushions. A piece of furniture handsomely crafted for sharing a spot of tea with company or cuddling under a throw blanket with the opposite sex.

In other words, Draco Malfoy's long, recumbent frame dangled and gangled.

Comfort whilst slumbering was clearly a defaming of the Chesterfield's purpose for existing. While it tolerated cat-naps or moderate lounging, it did not appreciate the desecration of being mistaken as a plebian and insipid mattress. The horror of such indignation caused the Chesterfield to protest its misuse every time its subject stirred and stretched. Awkwardly the Chesterfield's first language is very similar to flatulence and therefore did disturb its subject successfully, albeit momentarily.

However, when a large Australian Masked Owl swooped in and made its perch on the Chesterfield's arm, there was little it could do to shake the infernal animal away. And when the unsolicited bird decided to release the contents of it's bowels on the carefully tanned leather, the Chesterfield felt insult added to injury and pushed at one of its cushions, causing the slumbering blond to fall ungracefully to the stiff Turkish rug.

The Chesterfield nearly swelled with relief.

Draco Malfoy cursed with the skill of the Queen's Navy.

The Australian Masked Owl blinked his large black eyes at the wizard with exasperation.

"Hansel," Draco said through gritted teeth. The arrival of Harry Potter's owl only meant further irritation and undesirable news. "Get off the sofa before you ruin it," Draco ordered roughly and threw a pillow at the animal. After all, that was what the pillow was designed to do, considering it was a throw pillow.

Hansel did not acquiesce, but merely fluttered his feathers and stuck out his talon with the rolled parchment.

Draco stood and accepted the missive before shooing Hansel away because even if he had owl treats, Hansel didn't deserve them after ruining Draco's beloved sofa with his talons and … "What's this? You shat on my sofa!"

Hansel knew when to take his leave posthaste.

Before opening the epistle, Draco moved to his antique Carlton House Desk and took a few moments to admire the pretty painted ladies dancing on the surface before he removed a three foot parchment entitled "Ways to Torture Potter" from the center drawer. He flicked his wrist so it would unroll and just under item 634, Draco scribbled, _send professional furniture cleaning bill in a box with every one of Hansel's feathers_.

Draco smirked as the cogs in his brain began to turn and fantasize about the bespectacled wizard's crestfallen visage after opening his parcel. However, the imagination is never as sensational as reality when it comes to insulting pseudo-enemies and he moved on to break the wax seal on the new dispatch.

Instantly his temporary good mood was shattered as he read the contents.

It would seem that Hermione had decide to host a party and Draco wasn't invited. The theme of said party was box-packing and heavy lifting. Or would have been, if they'd been Muggles. In actuality, it would be a lot of trying to duck out of the way of flying objects.

He was thoroughly affronted and considerably disheartened because of her staggering nerve and the fact that she was apparently determined to carry out her threats. He bull-headedly decided that he would be glued to the Chesterfield for the duration of the day.

He had always been fantastic at gate-crashing.

The letter coldly and formally told him that Hermione and company would be arriving promptly at ten. Being that it was Saturday, Draco normally slept in, warm and cozy twisted around his pretty girlfriend—

Ex-girlfriend, actually. He needed to try and commit her new label to memory.

However, the mind is a very complex and strange entity. It forgets important events and dates, remembers nonsensical factoids and moments, and when it is ordered not to ponder certain witches with long tangled brunette hair and her insane behavior, it does precisely the opposite. Much to the chagrin of the thinker.

He attempted to examine the previous day's Prophet, to check his investments once more, but the numbers became obtuse, intelligible glyphs that he suddenly forgot how to understand. Even when he flipped to the sports section and read for the forty-second time the article describing how despite his crass attitude, he was a real asset to Puddlemere United, he could not find the will to be smug or proud. It all did not seem to matter anymore.

If he was honest, which at that moment there was no reason not to be, he hadn't really expected her to leave. They rowed often. They threw empty threats and hollow emotions around like it was water. They would end up soaked in a fresh relief that they could dry out in the scorching heat of their passion for each other. They always made up. It was their way.

But the prior night's argument had been different. In his opinion, it had been trite, fersure. Yet, there was longing in her words, her eyes, her heart and soul. He supposed she wanted to leave because she had wanted something more from him. If only he knew why she felt so unhappy, he could save their mutual friends from such a boring and cumbersome gathering.

Their communal confreres that they'd have to somehow share through custody agreements of alternating weekends and holidays. The good mates who were visibly coming through the gate and up the walk at that precise moment and had no idea how to behave.

It was a very un-interesting story, the way they all came together to be a united front in the aftermath of a war-divided society. It had merely happened and Draco often supposed it was because they had experienced enough animosity in their childhoods and had grown weary of fighting inexplicably. They had begun as drinking chums and grown into a very elite clique that rarely allowed outsiders to penetrate the circle. Even the Prophet had dubbed them the Sensational Septet and gave each of them defining identities.

Hermione was the Bluestocking for her love of books and ever expanding knowledge.

Pansy the Socialite for her need to attend every soiree and her penchant for the latest fashions.

Blaise the Debaucher for it covered all manner of his sins; gambling, drinking, womanizing, etcetera.

Ginny the Madonna for her overwhelming urge to mother the group and her status as Harry's wife.

Harry the Hero because he simply was exactly that.

Ron the Jester for his dry sense of humor and ability to lighten any situation.

And Draco. The Malfoy, for he was deemed a stain on humanity and his acceptance into the group was seen as either charity or by proxy through Pansy and Blaise. It was true that he had been the last to accept the awesome friendship proffered from the Gryffindor alumni. He was reluctant because he felt repentant towards Hermione for standing by whilst she suffered at his aunt's hand, and he felt ashamed of his cowardice in the face of Ron and especially Harry. Besides, he was still sore, figuratively, over that stellar punch Ron had doled him. He was sure that it was Hermione and her compassion and his affection for her that allowed him to accept the olive branch.

But labels didn't matter to him. Or them. They were a family, chosen because they could learn from and rely on each other. They had clung to the unwavering companionship when the world had let them down. Their bond was deep and rooted.

As the six remaining members trailed in solemnly, coming to pause in front of him, Draco prayed that his terminated relationship with Hermione wouldn't destroy the group.

He gulped.

After all, he was wizard enough to admit he needed them. A little bit.

All right, loads.

Hermione was staring at him as if he had grown another head, a striking anger flashing in her bottomless brown eyes. "Ignore the vagabond; he doesn't deserve your pity."

Six heads turned to her incredulously. Five slack-jawed, Draco a sneer.

"Ginny, start in the kitchen, pack everything except the dry goods in the cupboard and the chipped brown mug. There are boxes in the cellar. Pansy, the bedroom; take all my clothes, shoes, etcetera, leave the linens. Ronald, get my toiletries from the washroom, and you have my permission to snoop. Harry, Blaise, follow me, I will show you what furniture to take along." Hermione ordered from a long list unrolled in front of her whilst she perpetrated reading from it.

Draco knew she had it memorized.

"All right go." She turned to Draco then, flipped her hair ostentatiously and about faced, but not before he caught her stern visage. Eyes daring and mouth set firmly.

His sneer melted into a smirk as he watched her retreating form. He really did live to aggravate her.

He slowly turned his head back to the group and his brow darkened at their cumulative sympathy.

"Hansel piddled on your sofa." Harry pointed at the chalky grey excrement on the arm and his mouth lifted in gratified amusement.

"No, that idiotic creature fucking violated my Chesterfield," Draco corrected as his palm caressed over the cushion soothingly, "And may remind you to refrain from using such words as 'piddled' in my house?"

Pansy rolled her eyes and stomped off towards the bedroom; he could hear Hermione's muffled instructions to Ginny in the kitchen.

Harry ruffled his hair and grinned, "How's this for appropriate language in the Malfoy slash Granger --"

Draco's lip curled with irritation. "It's simply the Malfoy Cottage now, thanks."

"Ah, I hadn't forgotten." Harry's eyebrows rose deprecatingly. "And I was just going to say that --"

"Who in the sodding hell uses the word 'piddled'?" Blaise asked as he slumped tiredly into the adjacent chair and yawned.

"A little slow on the uptake, aren't you?" Draco grinned.

"I blame ever indelible champagne and lecherous Swedish twins." Blaise shrugged nonchalantly, "Discombobulates one's thinking for many days afterward."

"Ah, yes. I'm sure it does." Draco deadpanned, never really empathizing with Blaise's copulatory imperative.

"Ginny wouldn't say 'piddled'. At least not with a straight face." Ron pondered, tapping his chin as if to recall an instance when Ginny might have used such a word, a light, sarcastic smile curling his face. "Where did you learn that Harry? Big D?"

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off once more by Hermione yelling for he and Blaise. He threw his hands in the air, defeated.

Concurrently, Hermione strode into the room, her long ponytail flopping against her back, cheeks flushed and eyes annoyed. To Draco, she looked amazing. It only aggravated him.

"Honestly, the quicker everyone attends to their assigned duties, the faster we can leave." She allowed herself a peek at Draco, "I don't want to be here any longer than necessary." She knew she was being untruthful, and her forefinger worried at her thumb frantically, but it was hard to see him so nonchalant, so handsomely disheveled and know that he no longer belonged to her. She wanted to punch him in the nose just because he was so effortlessly bothersome. Plus, it would make her feel loads better.

He knew his presence would make leaving even more painful for her, ergo, his reason for staying.

Taking a deep breath, she inwardly reminded herself that she could do this; she was a big girl, and NO TEARS!

Because really, the worst thing she could do was let him see her cry.

She inhaled to reboot herself and pointed to the kitchen. "The hutch, sideboard, and harvest table all go. Then when you've finished that, you can start in here." Then she glanced at Ron. "Get to the washroom, now!" With a staunch pivot, she marched into the kitchen.

Harry hurried after her, reluctant to infuriate her more.

Blaise frowned apologetically to Draco and stood before lumbering in Harry's wake.

Ron skulked to the washroom.

And Draco held a constant vigil with the Chesterfield, watching the parade of boxes and furniture as they were levitated out the door, out of his life and into Arthur Weasley's enchanted lorry.

He tried to remain unaffected, aloof, and even considerably amused. But with each item that was removed, he felt as if a piece of his soul was being ripped away. Shred by shred. He couldn't understand it and it made him uncomfortable.

It had been a long thirty minutes when Harry and Blaise returned to the sitting room with Hermione. She was dutifully ignoring Draco whilst she instructed them on what furniture stayed and what went.

Draco's mouth went dry and he squinted at the fireplace. She ordered the telly gone and he had been particularly fond of it. He'd have to invest in his own, and maybe one of those gaming consoles that Harry had.

Then he heard it, the one phrase she could utter that would cause him to abort his plan of indifferent observation on the Chesterfield. "After I sort the contents, you can take the desk."

That was his Carlton House desk. Not hers. She could stake claim on all the books, everything else, but not that. He leapt from the Chesterfield. "You aren't taking the Carlton."

She merely blinked at him. "It's mine."

"No, we bought it together." He strode toward her.

"It was billed to my account." She raised her nose at him haughtily.

"And that absurd telly was billed to my account, but out the door it went."

She bit the corner of her mouth and inhaled deeply, "Fine, the telly stays, but the desk goes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Where are you going to put it? As I recall Potter's place is cluttered and stuffed with shit," Draco stated, ignoring Ginny's insulted gasp.

"I'm not staying with Harry and Ginny," Hermione said. She was incredibly matter of fact, as if her statement was common knowledge.

"Oh," Draco breathed, taken aback, his rage instantly quelling.

"I'm staying with Ron." She turned back to the desk and opened a drawer.

"No. You are not." Draco slammed the drawer shut.

"Yes I am." She yanked on the knob forcefully.

"You. Aren't. He's been salivating after your knickers for a decade." Draco shuffled his feet in an attempt to guard the desk from her.

"I have not!" Ron protested, seemingly appearing out of thin air and dropping to the sofa.

"Weasley, get your freckled arse off of my Chesterfield!" Draco's voice boomed. His eyes were narrow slits, and his sneer was dangerous.

"Blimey, calm down," Ron said and stood again, waving his hands in surrender.

"She's not moving in with you." Because it would be too much and Draco wasn't sure if he could handle the seething jealousy or the tormenting worry that would come with it.

'Who are you to tell me with whom I can or cannot live with?" she screamed at him, her control slipping rapidly away from her, despite her promise to keep it tautly moored.

Draco raised his finger, opened his mouth wide and began to tell her exactly who he was when Harry cut him off. "Let's go for a walk, mate, cool down, yeah?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't try to fix this with your whole 'I'm Harry Potter, world's favorite hero, come with me and thy pain shall be healed' shit."

Harry grinned and gestured to himself, "Are you coming on to me? Because you should know, you are lacking my two favorite assets. Tits and pussy." He grinned shamelessly, proud to have finally had the opportunity to use filthy vocabulary.

Ginny chastised Harry for his language because really, it was unattractive and rude.

Pansy snorted with mirth and covered her mouth with her hand, realizing this was not the moment to give herself over to laughter.

Blaise grunted amusedly and made himself comfortable on the floor, because fuck! He just needed a few more hours sleep to soothe his colossal katzenjammer.

Ron didn't say a word. He knew Draco would have a list of dreadful deeds to destroy Ron. He was not looking forward to it.

And Hermione was a ball of fury, staring at Draco like she was a hungry manticore hell-bent on devouring his brain.

"The desk stays," she hissed through her teeth. Honestly, he perpetrated as if he owned her. As if she was just another piece of furniture that he collected. It was unfair and wounding and the lump in her larynx threatened an overflow of tears. Blind hurt and terrible fury screeched to be released.

Why couldn't he just say that he loved her? Just once. Then she would leave all of her belongings and stay. Why didn't he understand that? Why did he insist on being a Class A Prat?

Draco watched Hermione and suddenly everything blurred away. Their friends, their surroundings. He was hurting her. But he didn't care. Because she was hurting him too. And she was trying to take away his dignity. He refused. He wouldn't let her demean him ever again.

"I'm out of here," he said and Disapparated. He hated himself for being so ridiculous.

Hermione exhaled and looked around, "Let's finish," she murmured and once everyone had left the room, she allowed herself a few tears.

She was going to miss the Carlton House desk desperately.

_I'd like to thank my beta's: moxicrimefightr, floorcoaster, and spadul. Each of you is amazing, wacky and everything a narcissistic writer such as me could wish for. I am totally and completely the luckiest kid ever because I have the most brilliant team to help me achieve this goal. Thank you for indulging me. _


	3. Part III

_**Disclaimer: **__The following is based on actual events. Only the names, locations, and events have been changed. And completely thieved from Jo Rowling. So I called people to call her people and her peoples people told my people's people that I had her informal permission to borrow them. And I totally put hints of RHPS and I stol a name from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, can you find them? Please forgive any blatant thievery._

_**Warnings:**__ EWE. Excessively AU, sort of when it came to DH, I picked and chose what worked with my story. This story is sometimes funny, sometimes angsty, and sometimes heartwarming/wrenching. But always amusing. Sexy sex, sex, sex. Here it goes into your brain._

_Part III_

Purgatory was the place where souls went to be purified before they ascended into heaven. Limbo was said to be where souls gathered after dying of original sin. Draco Malfoy had many sins and the majority of them were rather unusual and innovative, so he was sure that he would spend eternity in Limbo. If, of course, he believed such dogma. Thankfully, he did not. When his body perished, his soul would imprint itself on Potter's sofa to ceaselessly torment him. That was item number 275 on his cherished list.

However his current state of mind could only be described as Limbo. Only because there was no way to purify his blackened heart with purgatory.

He found the cottage stoic and empty upon his return and in the weeks that followed. A vast hole in which he would begin to spiral downward into a yawning abyss. Even the comfort of the Chesterfield couldn't keep the haunts away.

Yet, at the Manor, his parents' fractious pathos only twirled him into endless nothingness with ghostly echoes of "I told you so," and, "How dare she leave my handsome prince?"

It would seem that his place on earth was suddenly doomed to Hell and all its scathing demons.

So he hovered somewhere in between. Visiting his parents when the darkness became too lonely and hiding in the Cottage when Lucius' continuous patronizing and Narcissa's exuberant molly-coddling began to suffocate.

But one afternoon, while wallowing in his excessive ennui, he unexpectedly agreed to throw himself into the deepest circle of Hell.

He agreed to dinner out with his parents and the Zabinis.

He put on a smile for Mother Dear, finding comfort in the fact that at least Blaise would be there to keep him company. However, once he arrived, escorting his mother dutifully into Bacharach's Supper Club, he found himself sitting at an intimate square table with only Lucius, Narcissa and Blaise's mother.

Decorum dictated that he be seated opposite his parents. The assumption was an order of male-female across from female-male would make conversation flow fluidly. How unlucky was his lottery to be begat by pureblood aristocrats who thrived on ancient table propriety.

Mrs. Neravedova Zabini was astonishingly beautiful and adored Blaise, money and younger men. Or so was the rumor. Draco had never really witnessed any young "Uncles" or "Family Friends" accompanying Mrs. Zabini, but then again, after he had become involved with Hermione, any and all females and their probable sex lives became uninteresting to him. It was some strange curse his witch had cast on him and he was sure she had forgotten or more probably, forgone the act of lifting it.

However, after refreshments and appetizers were placed upon the table, he felt a long manicured fingernail graze the outside of his thigh.

He gulped, his smile faltered, and he missed the punch line to Lucius's joke. Draco prayed that his mind was playing tricks on him. Yet as Narcissa dove into a banal diatribe about her visit to Tel Aviv, Draco felt the sharp toe of a very expensive Italian shoe rub circles against his calf.

He desperately crossed his ankles and stared daggers at the far wall, cursing Mrs. Zabini silently for her unprovoked flirtations.

"Draco, dahling," Mrs. Zabini purred huskily, "Do tell me, how are you?"

"I-I'm well, Mrs. Zabini," he stammered and offered her a tight grin without any eye contact.

"Please," she chuckled from deep in her throat, "Call me Nera." And her hand moved a caressing trail from his kneecap to his---

Draco jumped and everyone at the table looked at him. "My foot fell asleep," he said by way of explanation.

Under the cloak of the table linen, he grabbed her searching hand and placed it on her own lap. Out of his periphery, he saw her smirk and realized then it was going to be the longest five course dinner of his life.

During the soup du jour, Mrs. Zabini—correction, Nera— became even more brash and purposefully placed her palm strategically on the inside of Draco's thigh, and in between spoonfuls would scratch her nails softly at his inseam.

Draco began to perspire and didn't dare chance spooning liquid into his mouth. Instead, he forced conversation with her, figuring that since she was Italian, she would undoubtedly use her hands to emphasize her words, right? "Mrs. Zab—Nera, where is Blaise tonight? I was under the impression that he would be attending."

"Oh, no, no, no, Blaise already had a prior engagement," she explained, but by the way her brow rose suggestively, Draco reckoned that Blaise had never even been invited.

Which was just fucking fantastic and somehow, Draco felt that perhaps he was being set up. If the sly dimple flashing in his father's cheek and the mirthfulness in his eyes were any indication, this dinner was more than a friendly gathering.

His grey eyes narrowed at his father in order to study the elder wizard's expression. "Pity, I was looking forward to visiting with him." And he took a deep draught from his wineglass.

Now, when a cumbersome unease was paired with the confinement of proper manners and polite responsibility, the result was often heavy consumption of alcohol. At least, that is how Draco justified his uncouth guzzling of a very expensive Welsh Cabernet Sauvignon.

Universal agreement is that wine delivers an entirely different intoxication than that of general liquor. The buzz it creates is significantly more subtle and exceedingly more pleasant. Even more strangely was that the imbiber could be quite aware that he had become rather inebriated, the symptoms were noticeably subdued. In other words, it was rare for a wino to slur, stagger, or feel dizzy.

In fact, the drunkenness came to the imbiber as an epiphany of sorts. A wonderful, blissful revelation.

When the entrée was delivered, Draco acknowledged that he was unequivocally, thoroughly, and most contently sloshed.

If anyone inquired, Draco would respond that it was the best feeling ever.

It was as if all his troubles and worries simply faded into a fuzzy void where they prioritized themselves into an amazingly neat, imaginary tickler-file. The first order of business: Deflecting the Cougar.

Not an easy task by any means, fersure, but accomplishable. 'Know thy enemy' and all those trite tenets. Perhaps throw in a dash of patience, a measure of exuberance, and loads of natural instinct.

Cougars were basic creatures really, a successful, general predator with its agility and capability of sprinting. Usually it preferred to ambush its prey, stalking unseen until it delivered a powerful leap and a suffocating neck bite. Mostly a solitary mammal that is incredibly protective over her young. Cougars were also secretive and crepuscular---

Wait a tick. Draco's eyes lit up with mischievousness, for he suddenly realized how to properly deflect Mrs. Zabini's advances.

He could attack Blaise's character!

However, that idea was immediately squashed because the universal code of friendship strictly stated that no defamation of disposition could be executed when the other was unavailable to defend it.

Such is Draco's life. Unlucky and awkward. Exponentially tragic. So on and so forth. Woe is he. Blah Blah Blah.

When the fresh garden salads were delivered, Mrs. Zabini excused herself to the powder room and Narcissa opted to join her. Draco was thankful for the reprieve. However, Mrs. Zabini used his upper bicep for purchase as she stood and her fingers trailed along the expanse of his shoulders pausing briefly to twirl into his hairline.

His body became rigid, his breath caught and it took all his willpower not to shudder visibly. Inwardly he was cringing and whining like a two year old.

If only etiquette allowed him to trade seats with his mother. Where it was safe and he was free from being molested.

He did take the opportunity to move his chair closer to the aisle, and at his father's perspicaciously lifted brows, Draco said, "You could offer an appropriate excuse for my immediate departure."

"Now, now, you are being rude. Nera is your mother's dearest friend and it is our duty to see that she feels welcomed and entertained," Lucius said carefully, his tone insisting that the matter is to be dropped and that Draco would comply even at the expense of his personal space.

As his mother and Mrs. Zabini returned, Draco idly wondered if his father had indeed decided he was the ultimate deity and could meddle in other's love lives.

After the salad plates had been cleared-- Mrs. Zabini's palm returned to his thigh and her toes to the mix, making small circles on Draco's calf-- it occurred to him that maybe this was punishment for breaking into Lucius' safe and stealing his collection of pornography when Draco was thirteen. It was just the sadistic retribution that Lucius preferred to dole out.

So it all came down to the fact Draco was on his own. He would have to either a.) Let Mrs. Zabini fondle his bits and pieces throughout dinner and then scrub himself pure for three days afterward, or b.) Since his "flight" option had been revoked, he would have to "fight" back and then scrub himself pure for three days afterward.

Obviously, he chose the latter, and instantly took her hand off his inseam and simultaneously kicked back at her invading toes. He let his wicked smile wan at her as he squeezed her hand cruelly.

Mrs. Zabini's eyes widened, and then settled into a glittering dare.

He was suddenly fearful that she might be a masochist.

Buggering ass head and hole. Shit and fuck a duck. Abort mission. Abort. Abort. ABORT! His brain screamed at him. He didn't; he merely redirected his strategy away from physical pain.

Draco decided he hated Mrs. Zabini and graced her with his most sinister sneer.

Humans, as a species, are blessed with the innate ability to sense danger and react accordingly. There was gut instinct, and although hugely ignored, it was the one instinct that should always be followed.

When four waiters brought out the entrée on silver platters, Draco's fortitude told him that it was time to disregard the friendship creed and slander Blaise's moral fiber. It was self-preservation and he hoped that Blaise would be understanding and magnanimous later.

Draco's inner child rubbed its palms together mirthfully.

"Y'know Nera, it's really awful that Blaise is failing out of Uni. I mean, he's nearly flunked out of every institute in the UK." Draco's voice was oleaginous and piteous, "I've always offered to help him but he is too proud to accept."

Her lips curled back over her teeth in a mockery of an appreciative smile. "You are a dear, but I do believe it is not pride that refuses him to allow you as a tutor, rather good sense. After all, it is common knowledge that he exceeded you in scores at Hogwarts." She returned her palm to his knee, causing him to flinch. "Although I do believe I am eager to see if the rumors of your dexterous hands are true."

Slapping her fingers away briskly, Draco coughed in order to launch his retort covertly, but he was interrupted by Narcissa inquiring everyone's opinion of the veal.

"Sorry, Mum, I haven't had the opportunity to try it. Is it as delectable as it appears?" he asked genuinely, unexpectedly overwhelmed with gratitude and affection for her, because in her artic blue eyes there was sympathy and a glint of maternal protectiveness.

Narcissa raised her fork to her mouth and smiled widely. "Do try it; your palette will be most pleased."

"It is delicious, Cissa," Lucius agreed.

"Quite so," Mrs. Zabini concurred.

Draco picked up his utensils and prepared to dine as quickly as humanly possible. Manners be damned.

There was a short reprieve throughout the entrée and the desert, but once coffee and tea were served, and the table's conversation had dulled to weather and politics, Mrs. Zabini's stockinged toes returned to Draco's leg. Unrelentingly.

Draco was hopeful, for the evening was nearly spent, and soon he could return to the Cottage where he planned to scour himself raw for many hours in a hot shower only to then fall graciously onto his beloved Chesterfield. The only thing in his life giving him absolute and unconditional comfort.

But then, as expected, disaster struck its ugly hand right on Draco's groin.

Both figuratively and literally.

While Mrs. Zabini attempted to blatantly rub at Draco's trousers, Lucius spoke dooming words. "Draco would be happy to escort you to the hotel, Nera."

Draco's jaw flexed and he was just about to decline, but Lucius kicked him harshly in the shin and as Draco winced, he agreed to his father's suggestion.

"Oh, thank you, Draco, you are such a dear. It's nearly impossible to Apparate with the champagne dizzies. I do appreciate your hospitality." And her long fingered hand clutched at his testicles with innuendo and emphasis.

He gasped and shot up from his seat, jostling the table and startling everyone. He pushed his hand through his hair and smiled. "I forgot I was supposed to meet the mates at the pub. If it's all the same to you, Missus—uh Nera, would it be all right to leave now?"

"Of course! I do find myself eager to be tucked into that wonderful bed." She winked suggestively and Draco was crestfallen. Obviously she had misinterpreted his hastiness as acquiescence to her seduction.

Mrs. Zabini stood and Draco diplomatically assisted her with her cloak. As the older woman said her farewells, an ominous tension settled on his shoulders and he was very apprehensive about the walk to the hotel.

Albeit, it was only a few blocks away.

However, Draco inwardly longed for the safety of the Chesterfield where he could surely hide under the cushions, deep, near the springy coils where loose change and odd socks had found residence. Far away from Neravedova Zabini's antique claws.

Perhaps if he still had Hermione and all her glorious assets. If she were with him, she could surely stave off Mrs. Zabini in that really amazingly condescending way that Hermione tossed off her competitions. Nasty-nice, is what Draco called it. It was an innate skill that she could wield beautifully. As a matter of fact, if she were still his, he wouldn't have agreed to dinner with his parents, ergo he wouldn't have had his anatomy assaulted.

So really, it was all Hermione's fault.

Yes.

He liked that idea.

Draco grinned at his parents and nodded goodnight as he offered Mrs. Zabini his arm. When the pair exited the restaurant, he made a tactful attempt at small chat. "Bleak weather we are having, yeah? Thank you I'm quite warm, how is your mum? Cheerio."

Only he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being followed and yet, at every glance over his shoulder, he saw only nameless unfamiliar faces huddled against the autumn wind.

As they arrived at the hotel entrance, Draco was deep in thought, planning his escape when suddenly Mrs. Zabini pounced on him. Her mouth was hard, cold and unforgiving on his and her ferocious hand was gripping his arse quite painfully. He struggled against her, his protests muffled and ignored and he momentarily marveled at the older woman's super strength until finally he was able to wretch himself away from her. There was a distant crack and the familiar scent of mimosa, but it barely registered on his radar. He had more pressing matters at the moment.

His mouth had been raped.

And he hadn't even enjoyed it. He felt as though a large carp had leapt from a murky lake and attached itself to his mouth. He couldn't quite catch his breath and he had a strange stitch in his side. Eyes wide and fearful he blurted, "What the fuck?"

"Oh, come now, my dear tadpole, you've been gagging for it for years; do be more mature about this." She produced a cigarette and with a snap of her fingers it ignited.

"Me? Be more mature? Are you insane? Blaise is my best mate; you are his mum. You are millennia older than me!" he yelled, never minding that his cool reserve was spinning into a tyrannical frenzy of panic and disgust.

Mrs. Zabini sighed as if bored. "What a waste. Blaise mentioned you were distraught about that insipid Mudblood leaving you. So I suggested this dinner to cheer you up. I should have known that you are still a juvenile and petulant wizard. Goodnight Draco." Spinning on her heal she strode into the hotel as if the whole evening had been nothing short of social graces and polite society.

Draco pivoted abruptly, Disapparating directly to Blaise and Pansy's flat, his mind was set on ripping Blaise a new brown-eye-- the ass hat. Blaise should be escorting his mother around and keeping her on a short leash. And muzzled.

And Draco wasn't _distraught_ over Hermione moving out. Good riddance, right? Yeah.

Unbeknownst to Draco, however, across town, in Ron Weasley's spare bedroom, a pretty witch with feral curls and endless brown eyes was convinced that her beloved wizard had moved on and forgotten all about her in a matter of two long weeks.

As Hermione Granger stood before the full-length mirror to study her sorrowful visage, amidst the still packed boxes, she felt like discarded furniture thrown out to the dump, to be forgotten, weather-beaten and unloved. She wondered, though, if rubbish ever found its way back home.

_Note to readers: I would like to tell each of you how much I appreciate that you are reading this story. I'm very proud of this one because I poured a lot into it. I know most of you don't review, but with every alert and favorite I see in my email, I am just as delighted. But I would really like to hear your thoughts on this story. Obviously you are enjoying it and are interested in where it shall lead, so please, ask questions, tell me some con crit. Make me better. I need you all for that. Btw, where other authors offer e-cookies or virtual brownies, I simply promise that I will not shank you, ever if you just leave a message. Even if it's just a simple Hello. _

_A/N: I'd like to thank my beta's: moxicrimefightr, floorcoaster, and spadul. Each of you is amazing, wacky and everything a narcissistic writer such as me could wish for. I am totally and completely the luckiest kid ever because I have the most brilliant team to help me achieve this goal. Thank you for indulging me._


	4. Part IV

_**Disclaimer: **__The following is based on actual events. Only the names, locations, and events have been changed. And completely thieved from Jo Rowling. So I called people to call her people and her people's people told my people's people that I had her informal permission to borrow them. And I totally put hints of RHPS and I stole a name from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, can you find them? Please forgive any blatant thievery._

_**Warnings:**__ EWE. Excessively AU, sort of when it came to DH, I picked and chose what worked with my story. This story is sometimes funny, sometimes angsty, and sometimes heartwarming/wrenching. But always amusing. Sexy sex, sex, sex. Here it goes into your brain._

_Part IV_

The Whomping Willow was a Dicotyledon plant of the Salix species and came from the Salicaceae family. It was also deciduous, but most people didn't care to know. Unless they were one of those over-analytical, logical, dreamers that suffered from a mild case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Which Hermione Granger decidedly was.

It was imperative to her daily functioning to know the what, where, who, why and how of everything that she encountered. She made lists, diagrams, and charts. Created labels and drew lines. Everything had a place and she categorized it efficiently. It was how she made her world turn comfortably.

Honestly, she did realize that she was off her rocker. But hey, love makes you do crazy things.

And _he_ made her behave that way because _he_ was the one she was utterly and hopelessly devoted to. That detestable wizard.

Well, more of a coward, really. Because truly, he wasn't that terrible. Just infuriating. Spoiled. Yes, most categorically a pampered brat.

But being an impossible idealist, Hermione loved him. Very much so. And when asked why she would launch into a detailed and scientific explanation of the effects of intermingling of testosterone and estrogen. The brain was assaulted by a chemical cocktail of neurotransmitters. Consisting of one part adrenaline, one part dopamine and one part serotonin. Better known as attraction, but really it causes the brain to go berserk and behave much like a drug addict. Soon after it settled into the wretched agony of attachment. At this point the listener of such drivel would become glossy-eyed and vacant. Information overload, she was sure. Because love was much more than a feeling and honestly, anyone who didn't realize that was seriously misinformed and uneducated.

But love him she did. In a disgustingly saccharine and wholly pathetic way. Despite her sound reasoning and devout level-headedness, she was still the good girl who wanted the bad boy. She wanted to be the one to tame him. The face of beauty that stayed the beast's hand.

She was just kind of fucked up like that. And rationally, it was probably because he refused to treat her the way she knew she deserved. He was mysterious and sexy. Who wouldn't love that? A bowl of petunias perhaps.

It was really basic science, though. To fall in love you simply find a stranger, reveal intimate details about your life for a half hour, and stare deeply into each other's eyes for four minutes.

She'd known him for too long; knew every minute facet of his rotten persona, and had stared into his stupid peculiar eyes for years.

They had an interesting rapport. She would make an off-hand comment to point out his less than finer attributes, he would sneer a snark. Then, she would vomit a dictionary and before she could shut her fat mouth he would do it for her. With his own.

Usually, anyway. Before she had decided to move out and anyhow she had always assumed that their break up was nothing short of temporary. Corporal punishment. He wouldn't give her what she wanted, so she figured she'd leave and then he would realize what he had lost and come running back into her life. Brandishing Excalibur on a white steed all the while waxing poetry about his condemned soul and how she was his salvation.

Yes, she daydreamed like a school-girl, and those fantasies had been dashed when she saw him intimately locked with Blaise's mum at the entrance of a very fine and expensive hotel.

He had never whisked _her_ away to luxury hotels to be pampered and worshiped.

The god-damned prat.

Hermione huffed and grabbed the nearest reading material, throwing her gal pals a reproachful glare.

Apparently, Pansy had been on a terrible date and treated herself to a new wardrobe to lift her spirits. Immediately she had called in Ginny to help her alter the pieces that didn't quite fit. That was Pansy's way though. She bought what she wanted, prices and sizes be damned.

"And then he asked me to pick a pecan out of his teeth! I don't even know a person who would do that on the first date," Pansy was saying while she held her body perfectly still.

Ginny, with a mouthful of straight pins, and her wand moving along the hem of Pansy's sparkly silver tunic dress, made proper mmhmms and uh-uhs at the appropriate moments, but she was clearly more focused on her tailoring.

Flipping through the magazine hectically, slamming the pages together as she turned them, Hermione tried to keep her hurt and seething jealousy out of her head. But all she could see was Mrs. Zabini's perfect red mouth devouring Draco's as he eagerly clutched at her flawlessly toned body.

Pansy and Ginny paused in their chatting and mending to stare at Hermione as if she had grown gills and was gasping for water. Finally Ginny spat out her pins and said, "What's got your knickers knotted?"

"My knickers are properly placed on my bum, thank you." Because she didn't have a problem. None at all. Hermione was problem free. Easy and breezy. Completely.

"Oh? So you just enjoy murdering fashion rags?" Pansy inquired, her willowy frame akimbo on the stool.

"Yes. I. Do." Hermione barked. Because maybe fashion was terribly overrated and honestly, real women don't truly look like that every day anyway.

Pansy pursed her lips and nodded her dark head, "Mmm-hmm. Well, don't. That's an Indian Vogue and I haven't had the chance to look through it yet."

Hermione sighed and carefully returned the magazine to the coffee table, making a brilliant show of softly placing it down and smoothing the cover, her brown eyes scathing and annoyed. Heaven forbid she'd crease an Indian Vogue. It wasn't the Holy Grail for Circe's sake.

"Thank you doll face." Pansy flashed her most dazzling smile and then gestured for Ginny to finish.

But Hermione suddenly wished she bit her nails or fiddled her thumbs because an irritating ennui settled over her and she began to fidget unattractively. There wasn't a book in sight aside from fashion and sports periodicals, and although neither really peaked her interests, she reached for a Quidditch publication and flipped it open to an editorial of a famous female Quidditch player, accompanied with a photograph of her in a very scanty…thing (Hermione guessed it was supposed to be a swimsuit, but it looked more like clippings of rope and linen). The witch kept rolling around provocatively in the sand throwing Hermione suggestive smiles and saucy winks. Disgusted, Hermione threw the issue down, "If I were you, Pansy, I'd force Blaise to keep that rubbish in his own room."

Biting her inner cheek, Pansy glared at Hermione pointedly, "Really? What about those boffing rags you allowed Dra—"

"Where is Blaise today?" Ginny intervened tactfully. "I thought he slept in on Saturdays."

Pansy sighed. "He usually does, but his mother—"

Hermione shot out a barking, "Ha."

"Nimue's knickers, Hermione, what is causing you to be so cross today?" Ginny exasperated, giving up the mending and acknowledging that she was never going to finish as long as her friend was in a funk.

Hermione bit her lip nervously. She didn't like talking to her two best girl friends about her relationship with Draco, but she had been hoping one of them would bring it up. It was strange that now that Ginny had asked, Hermione wasn't sure if she was ready. To spill her emotions on the floor for the whole world to examine was a scary prospect and she usually preferred to hold them inside until she exploded. If she told them her problem, there was so much that she would have to explain and it would make her seem like a jealous and stupid bint. Those were the two things she never wished to be. But they were her friends; she was supposed to be able to say anything to them. Conceding that they may be her only hope, Hermione said, "I've been holding this in all day, but—"

"Ugh! I know, all right." Pansy said and stepped down off the stool. "You are jealous of my hair." The raven-haired witch was probably joking, as it was known that Hermione did covet Pansy's straight, manageable locks.

"What?! No!" Hermione rolled her eyes and rubbed at her face, "Swear to secrecy."

"Oooh gossip, I do swear!" Pansy grinned.

"Just tell us, Hermione, we won't tell. I swear it." Ginny sat beside Hermione, placing a comforting and friendly hand on her shoulder.

"I saw Draco leave Bacharach's with … with Blaise's mum and then I followed them and then … then … Isawthemsnog," she rushed out.

A scandalized look fell upon Ginny's gaping face. "That old SLAG!"

But Pansy was doubled over, clutching her stomach, absolutely hysterical in a fit of bubbly giggles.

"It's not a laughing matter! It's not even in the same arena as funny!" Hermione yelled at her, feeling betrayed and exposed. Pansy's incessant laughter was a prime example of why Hermione was reluctant to talk about her worries.

"NO! It's just," Pansy chuckled, "last night when I returned home, Draco and Blaise were in the middle of a magnificent row." She pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. "Apparently Draco had dinner with his parents and Neravedova, but the entire time she was coming on to him rather strongly. He was furious and blamed Blaise. It _was_ hilarious, Hermione, because he was clearly very upset. I think he even mentioned being scarred for life." She chortled softly, the last of her comic hysteria subsiding.

Hermione chewed on her full bottom lip and considered that she might have really been mistaken. "So he didn't sleep with Mrs. Zabini?"

Pansy shook her head, her bobbed hair cut and dangly earrings recklessly dancing against her neck, "No, silly cow."

"And he isn't interested in her?"

"Of course not."

Hermione gave a small, tight smile, "When I saw … that ... I realized …" She licked her lips, "I want him back."

It was as if a brick house had been lifted from her shoulders by a grey gale.

"Oh?" asked Pansy, her mouth curling with a wise smirk.

"Yes."

"Why did you leave him in the first place?" Ginny asked, "You never did tell us."

"Well, it's complicated, but …" She sighed and felt the sting of tears in her eyes, "For you to understand completely, I have to start at the beginning. When Draco and I became involved, we both wanted the same thing. He was at the height of his Quidditch career and I was working long hours researching for the orphanage. We wanted to be together, live together, but we didn't want to be like the other couples we knew. We didn't want to follow the rules. We promised to be the anti-couple. Never get married, never have kids. Because it seemed that everyone that we knew who had kids and were married, were unhappy. It ruined their relationship. They didn't have sex anymore, they didn't get to be themselves, and they didn't do anything!" As Hermione admitted this, she was able to recognize how foolish the idea was. It was the observation of silly kids.

"It's true." Ginny said sadly. "Every since Harry and I said 'I do', there are so many things we don't." Her mouth pressed into a fond smile of endearment. "But there is this undeviating comfort in knowing that I get to go to sleep every night with the wizard of my dreams. That I'm spending my life making memories with someone special. Together." Her eyes were alive and glistering. "I like knowing that through the good times and the hard times, I don't have to go at it alone. That I have someone permanently there to hold my hand."

"See!" Hermione exclaimed. "I agree! But we were supposed to be just cohabitating." She frowned. "And, although it was amazing. Having sex anywhere in the cottage; flying off to his villa in De Panne at the drop of the hat. There was always this pink elephant that someday one of us might change our minds and leave without any strings attached. Just simply 'So long and here's looking at you'." Hermione looked down at her un-manicured fingernails, a pout forming on her mouth. "Then, a few months ago at Will's third birthday party, y'know Ginny, at Fleur and Bill's place. Marie asked me why I didn't have a family. And I don't know why, but I was suddenly overwrought. I guess because I realized instantly that I wanted one and I was never going to have one with Draco. But mostly, after five years of being together, it suddenly mattered that Draco never had told me he even loved me."

"That's a bloody good reason to leave, in my opinion," Pansy said softly but then her nose wiggled in a way that suggested she didn't understand something. "He never told you he loved you?" She raised her lips in disbelief.

"No he didn't. I tried to tell him one night when we were fooling around on the sofa. Straight out, no vacillating around. I told him I loved him and he started talking about the Chesterfield and how he always found the neatest objects in the cushions and cracks. I got angry and we argued. In the loo! I didn't care though, I'd had enough." Hermione was grateful that she didn't cry and that Ginny and Pansy were quiet, thoughtful and comforting.

"What if he never tells you and never settles down? Are you willing to live with that?" Ginny asked.

"Yes," Hermione said automatically. "I'd rather be with him forever in sin, than never touch him again," she stated forcefully.

Hermione meant it too. After all, relationships were about sacrifice and compromise. She would gladly surrender her domestic dreams and concede her moral values to be with Draco for as long as he wanted her.

"Then we'll help you get him back. I bet he does miss you." Ginny smiled and smoothed Hermione's hair out of her face.

"Yeah, hmm. Wait!" Pansy said brightly and crossed to stand in front of both of them. "I've got a plan, now listen," She moved to crouch at Hermione's feet but suddenly she leapt up quickly, "Oh!"

"What's wrong?" Ginny and Hermione said in unison with genuine concern.

Pansy grimaced, "I forgot about the pins."

The three witches fell into easy laughter and Hermione decided that she was indeed blessed with the sweetest friends anyone could ever ask for. They had raised her spirits and reminded her that she could trust them. For the first time in years, she felt that perhaps things might actually go her way. With Pansy's sly conniving, detailed lists and strategic planning, and the lovesick delusions that anything was possible.

Hermione was suddenly uncharacteristically optimistic as Pansy launched into a diatribe about a wizard's basic needs and how to attend to them. Ultimately though, Hermione had to finally agree with Pansy, getting Draco back should be a piece of cake.

_a/n: So I'd really like to thank, again, those who have review. I do appreciate it, so very much, I love the little pieces each of you share and I'm really thrilled to receive them. I really am glad you are enjoying the story thus far and I hope to hear from you all again in the coming installments. Any questions, suggestions or corrections, please let me know!_

_I'd like to thank my beta's: moxicrimefightr, floorcoaster, and spadul. Each of you is amazing, wacky and everything a narcissistic writer such as me could wish for. I am totally and completely the luckiest kid ever because I have the most brilliant team to help me achieve this goal. Thank you for indulging me._


	5. Plan A

_**Disclaimer: **__The following is based on actual events. Only the names, locations, and events have been changed. And completely thieved from Jo Rowling. So I called people to call her people and her peoples people told my people's people that I had her informal permission to borrow them. And I totally put hints of RHPS and I stol a name from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, can you find them? Please forgive any blatant thievery._

_**Warnings:**__ EWE. Excessively AU, sort of when it came to DH, I picked and chose what worked with my story. This story is sometimes funny, sometimes angsty, and sometimes heartwarming/wrenching. But always amusing. Sexy sex, sex, sex. Here it goes into your brain._

_Plan A_

Talking Heads were an American rock band that were begat in 1974 and were part of the New Wave slash Punk Rock movement at CBGB & OMFUG (Country, Blue-Grass, Blues and Other Music For Uplifting Gormandizers), a small hole in the wall that was formerly located at Bowery and Bleecker Street in Manhattan, New York City, New York.

Their hypnotic melodies and stimulating lyrics blended into a life-altering sensationalism that transcended diffidence and mawkish tristesse.

As Draco repaired his broom, he tried to ponder a _Lifetime Piling Up_ but he could only irritatingly acknowledge that Ron Weasley was not David Byrne. Ron had neither the rock star good looks nor the vocal talent and somebody needed to inform him so immediately.

"My ears are bleeding, Weasley." Draco's brogue was curmudgeonly and his argent eyes egregious.

"Sod off," Ron said, but his warbling did fall taciturn, his focus turning to the three cards on the table and the two in his hand. "Check."

Harry burned a card and then turned a card. "Raise fifty." He threw in a blue poker chip.

"Three-hundred, "Ron said impassively.

"Fuck, Ron. I'm committed to the pot, you bastard." But Harry still burned and turned again.

"Aha, I flopped two pair." Ron ebulliently dropped his cards on the chip pot.

"Fuck-head," Harry murmured and chucked the deck at Ron. "I can't wait until Zabini gets here."

"Oi! That reminds me; I heard his mum tried to come onto you, Malfoy." Ron said brightly as he shuffled the deck.

"You'll shut your mouth from talking if you know what's good for you," Draco said scathingly, his mouth curling into a sneer.

"Besides," Harry paused to peek at his cards. "Zabini's mum tries to shag any wizard twenty years her junior."

"You lie!" Ron exclaimed, his eyes wide in disbelief. "She's never came onto me!"

"That's because all females, kittens and cougars alike, see you as asexual." Draco's mouth pulled tight as he pondered Ron evanescently. "It's probably the freckles."

"Oi! I get laid plenty."

"Your right hand doesn't count." Harry smiled and adjusted his glasses.

Ron rolled his eyes and folded his cards. "Har Har. The sooner you realize you aren't in the least bit hilarious, Harry, the better off we will all be."

"Hear. Hear," Draco concerted, and settled his broom into its case again. He saw through the window, Blaise coming through the gate and Draco rose to let him in.

"Piss off. The both of you," Harry bit out grimly, scowling at his friends. "You may think I lack a sense of humor, but clearly, when it comes to sex and relationships, I've bested both of you."

"Nah. You've condemned yourself in matrimony." Blaise said as he removed his gloves. "That means one vagina for the rest of your life."

"Exactly, Harry. The mates and I, we are bachelors and the world is our oyster." Ron said after he nodded a hello to Blaise.

Harry did the same, but turned his attention quickly back to Ron, "You." He jabbed his finger in Ron's forehead. "Are a deluded fucker. Admit to it. It's been so long you wouldn't recognize a pussy if it sat on your face." Then he threw his attention to Draco. "And despite what your argument may be, the only reason you didn't dip your willy into Zabini's mum is—"

"Watch it Potter," Blaise warned.

"Because you miss Hermione," Harry continued, ignoring Blaise's threatening timbre.

"Now, _you're_ delusional _and_ hilarious." The last subject Draco wanted to discuss was his ex-girlfriend and his feelings towards her.

"Of course I am." Harry laid his cards on the table, "And a master at Hold'em. That's a flush, Ron."

"I don't miss Hermione. Good riddance, I say." Draco smiled conspiringly. "Do you know the kind of ass I could get if I wanted? I'm a famous Quid—"

"A right infamous liar. That's what you are," Blaise said as he moved Draco's broom case and settled himself on the Chesterfield.

"I'm not!" Draco was affronted. Would all his mates gang up on him about this? He really didn't want Weasley to be his only ally. "I am famous and I do play Quidditch professionally."

"And you miss Hermione." Ron pointed out.

Son of bearded mermaid, Draco had absolutely no allies. He sighed and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. As he rolled his weight from the heels to the balls of his feet, he admitted that he did miss her, but his intense pride refused to allow him to say that aloud. "Get off my sofa, Zabini."

"As soon as I get off on your mum." Blaise grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

"Really original; get up," Draco said, gesturing with his thumb.

"What's with you and this shitbag anyway?" Blaise asked, but stood nonetheless.

"I'm not sure, but he's been over protective of it since Hermione moved out." Harry was shuffling the cards whilst Ron counted his chips.

Draco's tongue pressed against his cheek and he wondered how he could explain to them what the Chesterfield embodied. How could he explain that it was special because the first time he kissed Hermione had been on the left arm and that the first time they shagged had been awkward, clumsy and wonderful on it. They would laugh and they would know he wished she had never left. Maybe. He wasn't exactly sure why it was so important to him to appear unflappable and … well … tough, but it was. He needed to or he would be defeated. Another moment in his life he was too afraid to handle. With Hermione he was always brave, never cowardly. She had been Dorothy Gale and he depended on her to get to the Emerald City to gain courage. The cottage and the Chesterfield were only yellow bricks guiding them to the ultimate destination.

Even though she had left him, he knew if he stuck to the familiar road, he would some how find her and recapture the magic of invincibility.

Amongst the chaos of male bonding, through the haze of amicable jabs and rowdy snarking, Draco saw clearly that despite the dooming gloom of loneliness, he was not alone. He had good pals who were very concerned about him and were just as clueless about his broken relationship as he was.

So why did he feel like the only true friend he had was a rather stiff, olive green Oxford Chesterfield? He supposed because it never laughed at him. It understood his plight and could comfort him unconditionally. He didn't have to explain himself, he didn't have to pretend. It just knew. Everything. His doubts, his dreams. Where his heart truly laid. It never judged him. It couldn't, because it had been through every significant milestone in his life.

In his reverie, he didn't hear the gate slam. He didn't hear anything at all. Yet suddenly, somehow, he knew she was there. At the cottage.

His heart clenched and he felt a lopsided, rhapsodic smile break his face. The pulsing enthusiasm bruised his nerves and whirling dervishes danced in his stomach.

She had come home. She had missed him too.

He could hold her again so very tight against his bones and kiss her pretty smile endlessly.

He was positive of it.

Uncharacteristically, he sprinted towards the door and yanked it open, breathless and itching to swallow her up into his soul.

The sunshine glittered off her undulant, dark brown hair, her cervine eyes were dulcet and benign, but her smile was false as she gestured to the elderly couple standing behind her, "Hello Draco, this is Mr. and Mrs. Madison and they are interested in purchasing the Cottage."

It was as if the Apocalypse had thundered into his heart, churning its oceans and crashing down its mountains. He'd been wrong. She wasn't Dorothy Gale. She was Elmira Gulch, Wicked Witch of the West.

Draco slammed the door in her face and stormed heatedly to the Chesterfield where he petulantly threw himself onto the cushions. It sighed and welcomed his weight and anger.

Blaise, Harry, and Ron were looking at him forlornly, expectantly.

"If any of you let her in, I will string your entrails along the guttering like fairy lights," he said through gritted teeth, his eyes daring them. He would do it. He would. He would. He would. Dare him. Go ahead.

Not one of them moved, but soon Hermione was through the door, her timbre clipped as she apologized for Draco's uncouthness.

A consuming fire burned through his veins, riving his composure into oblivion. "Get them out!" He roared.

"I will not." She was indignant, but not surprised. Hermione knew he would behave this way. He did not want her back and she was a foolish woman for thinking so. Yet she had wanted to believe in Pansy so bad. After all, Pansy had been rather convincing in her colluding.

"I don't want to see your fucking face or smell these old farts decomposing." He crossed his arms, and turned his cheek so that his glare was directed at Potter, who gulped and stood to back away from Draco's misdirected wrath. Draco proscribed himself to look at her. It just hurt too much. How dare she try to sell their dreams to the highest bidder?

"Draco!" She squeaked, and her face burned with the rouge of discomfiture. Biting her lip and entwining her fingers she looked around at the cottage's occupants before taking tentative steps towards him and the Chesterfield. "You are embarrassing yourself," she whispered harshly and then stepped back offering everyone a sympathetic and rueful smile.

Unexpectedly he sprung from the couch and spun on her, "Am I? Oh excuse the fuck out of me!" He glared at the cowering older couple. "Forgive the ignorant muggle-born, but the Cottage has already been sold. Get fucking lost."

Hermione let out a shocked gasp as an acute pang split her rapidly beating heart. She wasn't sure what forced the fissure, his invectiveness or that he was truly getting rid of the cottage. "You sold it?"

"Of course. Why would I keep it?" His lips cambered upward, baring his teeth in a nasty sneer.

"To whom?" Hermione blurted, although she wasn't sure if she could stand to hear the answer.

Draco sniffed pompously and looked down his nose at her, "Neravedova Zabini. This morning. Over breakfast." So he lied. He was good at it. He knew he was because her brown eyes clouded over and began to glister with tears; her luscious bottom lip was quivering. All telling that she believed every word he spoke.

Her palm prickled as she closed her fingers in on it. Her entire being begged her to allow it to explode and to let her hand connect with his jaw. Pansy had been so very wrong. Completely. Draco didn't miss her. He wasn't holding on to the cottage hoping she'd come back. He _was_ sleeping with Blaise's mum. The betrayal and heartbreak was agonal, deep and candent. She refused to lower herself to his sick and iniquitous constitution. But she couldn't help but let herself be brash and fatuous. Her feet were like elastic as she launched on him, her fingers hectically tangling into his perfectly combed hair, mussing it up into supreme ludicrousness. His arms were like steel bands as they came around her body and in that moment she realized how much she had lamented them, but it only infuriated her more and soon she was slapping and hitting his face and head. Psychotically, unabashedly.

They were a tangle of limbs and a chorus of expletives as Draco tried to push her off of him and escutcheon his face as she ruthlessly assaulted him.

It was an ephemeral moment before their friends rushed forward in an urgent attempt to pry the sparring couple apart. It took Blaise, Harry, and Ron to disentangle Hermione from Draco.

In a matter of moments they had her screaming, writhing form out the door and the elderly couple was following quickly in their wake.

As the older wizard shut the door on Draco's vulgar shouts of good riddance, Harry hugged Hermione tight against him, "Calm down, girl." His voice was soothing and brotherly.

Hermione didn't know why, but for the first time since she broke up with Draco, the tears flooded her and she was a snotty quaking mess in Harry Potter's arms. It was a wonderful release of emotions and she was grateful that Harry was there for her to clutch to so desperately. He was there, cushioning her fall from grace.

The unnamed elderly wizard leaned towards the unnamed elderly witch and whispered heatedly, "This plan was crap, Pansy."

"Sssh, Gin." Pansy hushed her and wiggled her nose at Ginny's Polyjuiced face. "Maybe so, but you have to admit that it's obvious that he loves her. I daresay we need plan B after all." It was apparent to her that Home is where both Draco and Hermione wanted to be, they just needed to be picked up and turned around. It was up to Pansy and the others to help them, after all, Draco and Hermione…

They were numb. Burned with weak hearts.

_a.n.: The last four sentences were paraphrased from the lyrics of the song "This Must be the Place (Naïve Melody)" and rightfully belong to Talking Heads._

_I'd like to thank my beta's: moxicrimefightr, floorcoaster, and spadul. Each of you is amazing, wacky and everything a narcissistic writer such as me could wish for. I am totally and completely the luckiest kid ever because I have the most brilliant team to help me achieve this goal. Thank you for indulging me._

_Remember to review my darlings! I love hearing from you!_


	6. Plan B

_**Disclaimer: **__The following is based on actual events. Only the names, locations, and events have been changed. And completely thieved from Jo Rowling. So I called people to call her people and her people's people told my people's people that I had her informal permission to borrow them. And I totally put hints of RHPS and I stole a name from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, can you find them? Please forgive any blatant thievery._

_**Warnings:**__ EWE. Excessively AU, sort of when it came to DH, I picked and chose what worked with my story. This story is sometimes funny, sometimes angsty, and sometimes heartwarming/wrenching. But always amusing. Sexy sex, sex, sex. Here it goes into your brain._

_Plan B_

J.M. Barrie wrote that the reason for Tinkerbell's engulfing Bi-polarity was small size made little room for more than one emotion to be expressed at a time. Also Tink's survival depended on a universal belief in her species. According to Barrie, fairies don't live very long anyway, due to their miniscule disposition, but to them a very short life to humans is an incredibly long life. Tink did die though. Naturally, of course. And Peter forgot her.

Despite Hermione's tall and waif-like frame, she found that recently, she felt very much like Tinkerbell. Emotionally unbalanced, barely surviving, and doomed to be forgotten by a boy who was careless with her affections for him.

Whenever Hermione thought of Draco, she became quite overwhelmed with endearment. So much so that her skin prickled and her body constricted. It was nearly painful, as if the emotion itself was greater than her form and was straining to burst through her bones. It was rather annoying actually, which made her dizzy and her eyes rolled unintentionally whilst her fingers nimbly scooted the hanging garments around on the rack.

Why did she even agree to go shopping with Pansy? She hated shopping. She like comfy jumpers and wear-worn blue jeans. Not flimsy blouses and revealing miniskirts.

"So I was thinking—" Pansy began.

"Shocking," Hermione murmured as she inspected a silvery slinky halter dress.

"—and I have another plan to help you get Draco back."

"No. Forget it." Hermione turned to a table with carefully placed knickers on it.

"You haven't even heard it!" Pansy argued.

"I don't have to. I heard your first brilliant plan and we all know how well that turned out." Hermione raised her eyebrows, her face starch as she glared at her companion.

"Look, I just think you should prove to yourself that Draco only has eyes for you." Pansy pulled a purple baby-doll dress from the rack and turned to the mirror, holding it up to her frame.

"How about I already know that he has eyes for _Neravedova_." Hermione pursed her lips with disgust, as if the taste of Mrs. Zabini's name was bitter and revolting.

"He does not." Pansy's shoulders slumped in annoyance and she returned the garment to its place.

"Does too," Hermione's timbre was sing-song.

"Not."

"Too."

Pansy sighed, "Look let's do some Glamour Charms and make you look completely different, we'll go to the pub tonight and if Draco talks to you, then you know he is over you. If he doesn't, then you'll know he isn't. Simple." She grinned hopefully.

"Stupid," Hermione spat out.

"Why not?" Pansy whined.

"Why would I?" Because it was a ridiculous plan and what witch in her right mind would do something like that? It was so incredibly absurd that not even Lucille Ball would think of it.

"To know for certain."

Hermione huffed, and threw a pointed look at Pansy. "I know for certain that he wants nothing to do with me. I refuse to put myself in that situation again." Her voice quieted. "It hurts too much Pansy."

Pansy's violet eyes followed Hermione's hands as they fluttered over the racks, a small, sympathetic smile pulling her lips tight. "Oh all right. At least go out with me tonight. As yourself!" She said when Hermione began to protest. "There is a fantastic gala in Milan."

Hermione considered it as she chewed on the inside of her cheek, her eyes were narrowed suspiciously. "I don't know…"

"It will be fun. I mean I understand. Draco is K.O." Pansy smirked at her own genius. "But go for yourself. We will get dolled up and Great Odin's Beard, have you seen male models in their underpants? It's amazing. Be a woman and let's go ogle them. Let's be wicked."

There was something in Pansy's ebullience. An impishness that Hermione instantly envied. She hungered for it. After all, she had never really been a woman on the prowl, full of moxie and confidence. A coquettish ingénue exuding mystery and sex.

So she agreed. To it all. She allowed Pansy to chose a new cocktail dress (a black tunic number that was very short, nearly illegally) silver stilettos, silver jewelry, and even sexy lingerie. Hermione was so eager to be someone else for a night that she conceded and let Pansy straighten her hair and apply dramatic make up.

The dynamo that stood in the mirror was not Hermione Granger. The smoky eyes and pin-straight glossy locks belonged to some other girl with some other life.

Hermione jaw was hanging loose in disbelief because she did not recognize herself. It made her uncomfortable and unsure. The love of Nimue! She was tarted up like a harlot!

"You look smashing!" Pansy said, her hands clasped to her clavicle in pride.

"I've changed my mind." Hermione said softly, her eyes round and large and her hands twisted her silky hair over her shoulder nervously.

"No. It's not allowed." And with that Pansy grabbed Hermione's hand and stuck it onto the Portkey. At her navel, the hooking feeling jerked erratically, but Hermione's only concern was to keep the skirt down modestly.

As they landed in an alley, an ominous cloud settled over Hermione's shoulders. She tried to shake it off as she followed Pansy's example and smoothed herself out, but it was niggling, unrelentingly.

Hermione did not like not knowing and she hated surprises. So she should have realized that Pansy was up to no good when they entered the dim ballroom with pied lights flashing hither and thither and Pansy immediately crossed to Blaise and his companion.

His companion being the one and only Draco Malfoy. Undeniably. Sexy and mysterious in his charcoal trousers and hot pink and black striped shirt. Effortlessly, as always.

Hermione halted instantly, losing her balance and skidding ungracefully, a gasp of astonishment escaping her throat.

Draco choked on his gin and tonic, nearly snarfing all over himself. There was this…goddess stumbling towards him. Stopping clocks, turning heads. Making his heart lurch to his throat, strangling him.

He knew those large, brown eyes. He recognized the curve of those cheeks, the swell of that décolletage, and the curl of those hips. Those assets belonged to him. They were for his eyes only. And he did not like the way they were put on display so ostentatiously for every male in the world to goggle.

He decided immediately that he did not like this…analog of his Hermione. It was a sorry rendition of something sacred to him. Yes. Most categorically a blasphemous recreating of his dream girl.

He grabbed his blazer from the chair and wrapped it around Hermione.

She shoved him away discreetly. "What are you doing?"

"Saving you from embarrassment," he said quietly, his eyes ferocious silver orbs darting around the large room, wary of onlookers.

"Embarra … I swear … not as if … Get your hands off my anatomy!" She shoved at him once more, threw a reproachful glare at Pansy and Blaise before pushing into the crowd.

Draco was on her heels with an inspiring quickness.

It was quite feat, actually, because Hermione was able to cut through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, but it instantly swallowed up on Draco. And he swore that some _bloke_ grabbed his arse.

He was able to catch up and slip into the loo with her. He turned rabidly and locked the door.

"Leave me alone!" She screamed at him, and Draco saw the frantic pain glistering in her eyes.

Oh shit. She was about to cry.

Her eyes would begin to leak and he wouldn't know what to do. Hell, he didn't even know why he followed her.

However, she only balled her fist, stomped her foot childishly and said "Ugh, I hate Pansy."

"No you don't." His back was against the door, barring her from escaping

She turned her head to him. "I hate you."

"I know." He held her eyes for a moment, wondering where this conversation would grow to.

"Look. I'm going to refresh myself. You are going to leave. Go home and I am going to have a great time tonight. Without you." She folded her arms over her chest and cocked her head, pink lips pursing.

"I don't think so. I am not letting you walk around here looking like a Pansy clone." He growled lowly.

"That is not your right anymore. You are not my boyfriend. I do not belong to you or anyone. And if I want to philander around like a social butterfly that is my prerogative," she said pretentiously, marking her point by letting her sweet tongue sweep over her teeth.

Ugly green jealousy exploded from his chest. "That's right Hermione. Whore it up."

Her nose crinkled with indignation, "You and I both know that I am not a whore." It was true. Draco Malfoy was her one and only.

"You look like one."

Four words. That was all it took. Unlike sticks and stones, they did not break any bones, but they lacerated her heart to pieces.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Her mind chanted. She slowly pivoted to the sink and turned the sterling faucet, letting ice cold water dribble into the drain, fully intent on patting her cheeks. She gripped the basin, and clenched her eyes shut. Maybe if she tried hard enough, she could ideate that he would evaporate.

Suddenly the faucet was gushing full force and Draco was using his palm to cup handfuls of water onto her hair. Making it curl with moisture. She howled in protest, grabbing his wrists and attempting to dodge the assault.

Soon she was trying to splash him back, anger and adrenaline thrumming her body as she was fiercely intent on besting him. However his hands were bigger and his arms were longer and she just couldn't get close enough.

So she was soaked. Her hair sticking to her face and shoulders and chest in squiggles and tendrils. Then, without warning, Draco sloshed a palm full of water onto her face, rubbing it around, smearing her perfectly applied eye make-up.

She shoved at him and sputtered, blinking rapidly, and then suddenly he crushed his mouth to hers. There was a flooding relief of ripened tension and the instinctual stiffening of shock. But she quickly relaxed due to his heated lips, intense and demanding against hers; a delightful contrast to the icy chill of the water. Hermione shamelessly gave over to a shiver of pleasure and became mindless with ecstasy. Lost in the wonderful sensations of his nectarous mouth.

His hands skimmed up her arms and cupped her jaw delicately, edacious to lick and suckle at her sweetness, letting it roll over him, igniting his nerves, making them spark to have her closer, just so, so very close. He needed to consume her, become a part of her. Escape into the warm comfort and fiery passion she offered.

She was clutching at him madly, molding her soft curves against his hard angles, and he briefly acknowledged how perfectly they fit, as if just maybe, some deity somewhere made her specifically for him and him alone.

All thoughts became jumbled as her fingers crept past his jumper and pulled his t-shirt from his trousers only to quickly smooth her cool palms against the feverish skin of his back, making him growl with approval, letting him press closer still.

He broke from her tantalizing mouth reluctantly, but only to nip softly at her jaw, her neck, eliciting a mew of pleasure from deep in her throat, and she was so responsive to his kisses, to the way his hands pushed just right at her breasts, that he nearly forgot himself. It took all of his willpower not to rip away her damp and deliciously clingy clothes and take her unyielding body right there against the sink basin. But gods he wanted to. So very badly. He needed it like a thirsty man needed water.

And then she was trembling, surrendering, yanking at her the hem of her skirt so her long leg could hook around his thigh, and she thought that perhaps he was just as covetous for her as she was for him. That possibly, standing in the stark blinding florescent light of the washroom, he wanted to belong to her again too.

Yet, perchance wasn't good enough. She needed to know. To be absolutely positive before she transcended into the sweet, rapturous escape of his soul, "We shouldn't do this here," she murmured against his slick temple.

"Mmmm, hold on," he whispered throatily before covering her mouth with his again.

Although Draco's grip on Hermione had been fierce, hungry and possessive, he immediately felt her body attempt to wrench away from him and his already blurred surroundings disappeared into a spiraling darkness. He felt as if their clutching existence had folded in on itself, compressing his already constricted nerves. Then just as suddenly as the sensation came, it vanished, leaving him dazedly breathless at the cottage. Snogging whilst Apparating side-along was quite an interesting sport.

As they had arrived, they had broken apart and Draco used that opportunity to gain his bearings and quell his concentrated lasciviousness. Concurrently she was glancing around, learning her surroundings.

A warm, inviting fire was crackling in the hearth, and vellum was scattered on the coffee table. It was Home. A heavenly haven for them to runaway to, and as Hermione's eyes settled on Draco, she gulped because she was realized she wanted it. Selfishly. One last time. She could eject herself from reality, forget about the sorrow and guilt over their terminated relationship.

She held his gaze for a stretching instant before her face reddened considerably, perfect white teeth began to nibble on her bottom lip and her trembling hands began their descent over her water-soaked body.

Draco gulped.

"Such messes." She breathed a laugh and her dancing sea lion eyes flickered back to him, before she grabbed her tangled, dripping hair and lifted it up gingerly, "A drying spell is---"

He crossed to her in a fury, possessively wrapping his arms around her svelte body and his lips captured hers in a ferocious kiss, deciding instantly that there was no better place in all of earth that he'd rather be.

She arched into him with keen ardor, those dainty hands gliding lightly up his arms only to clutch at the fine cashmere of his jumper jerking him deeper.

As her tongue slid against his unabashedly, he was dimly aware that she had kicked off her shoes, making her shorter and he sequentially stooped to keep that amazing connection.

He did not see, only felt. Felt her hands, suddenly on his shoulders. He did not see, but tasted. Tasted the sweetness of her tongue. He did not see, but he knew. Knew that only she can bring him from his dooming numbness, and his insides clench with the thought of it all, with the longing for it.

Suddenly there is the scrambling of blind hands on buttons and zippers, all consuming them in the rapturous need to feel skin against heated skin. The frenzied urgency was overwhelming and he lost sense of time and its relevance and soon they tumbled naked onto the giving expanse of the Chesterfield. It garbled flatulently in disapproval, but was ignored.

Their eyes met again, and then their lips followed. Her sigh was swallowed by his mouth as he took her breath away, to breathe new life into himself at the same time.

He was so aware of her, the silk of her skin, the sweet but faint scent of mimosa, the low hum of her inexpressible pleasure from her throat and he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop and soon he was within her.

She gasped.

He choked.

But then she was writhing against him, stretching, arching, purring, and moaning. So abso-fucking-lutely amazing, that it rocked him into the tingly joy of wholeness. He was intoxicated with it, and his mind was gone, he was purely instinctual and she was calling for him deeper and harder.

He had gone delirious, he was sure, and as his thrusts became unsteady and that brilliant tremendous explosion of euphoria drew near, she screamed and clutched at him desperately. Her tiny, perfect body came undone in his hands, around his body, and he was positive that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

And he wanted to join her, to become nothing but quivering flesh and bone in her arms and when she cupped his jaw, her large sea-lion eye sparkled with adoration, and he heard the whisper of his given name. Then, in a candent combustion of glory, he surrendered to her. Completely.

It was just like heaven.

_I'd like to thank my beta's: moxicrimefightr, floorcoaster, and spadul. Each of you is amazing, wacky and everything a narcissistic writer such as me could wish for. I am totally and completely the luckiest kid ever because I have the most brilliant team to help me achieve this goal. Thank you for indulging me._


	7. Plan C

_**Disclaimer: **__The following is based on actual events. Only the names, locations, and events have been changed. And completely thieved from Jo Rowling. So I called people to call her people and her people's people told my people's people that I had her informal permission to borrow them. And I totally put hints of RHPS and I stole a name from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, can you find them? Please forgive any blatant thievery._

_**Warnings:**__ EWE. Excessively AU, sort of when it came to DH, I picked and chose what worked with my story. This story is sometimes funny, sometimes angsty, and sometimes heartwarming/wrenching. But always amusing. Sexy sex, sex, sex. Here it goes into your brain._

_Plan C_

They say that relationships are like sand, if it is held with an open palm, an open mind, then it will stay. Undeviatingly. Steady. But the tighter the grasp becomes the more it slips through the fingers.

Hermione Granger had slipped through Draco Malfoy's fingers.

As the cold November rain fell to the earth, he stood at the cottage window and pondered one question. _Why_?

It had been two weeks since he'd seen her. No word on why she left that early morning or where she had been since. Their friends simply reassured him that, "She's fine."

A lot had transubstantiated in a fortnight. For example, Harry and Ginny were expecting. Pansy had found a fantastic bloke who she was positively la-ti-dah over, only she refused to reveal his name or bring him around. Weasley was getting laid on the regular now, and he was quick to tell everyone. Even Blaise seemed to have found that special someone and had given up his debauchery for the time being. Draco had changed too. He was blatant in his tristesse. It was very apparent that he missed Hermione. That he was heartbroken and lonely.

The only thing that didn't change was the Chesterfield. It still remained in the center of the sitting room, on the Turkish rug facing the fireplace with the coffee table in between. It still objected to him sleeping on it, still moaned and groaned until he rose for the day. And when he searched the cushions, he found that it still kept loose coins and random socks within its vaults. Draco decided it was a fantastic hiding place.

He sighed resignedly and moved away from the window to the Carlton House Desk and picked up the invitation to Seamus Finnegan's party at the pub he and his mum run. Draco had promised Weasley and Harry that he would attend. After all, he hadn't been out since the gala in Milan and if his friends didn't drop by, he would never see them.

He wondered if Hermione would be at the party. He hoped she would. It made sense. The rest of the Sensational Septet would be, why not her?

Dropping the parchment, he headed for the shower. He would go to see her. Just once more.

Later, after he finished his grooming, he apparated to Harry and Ginny's flat. Ginny offered him a butterbeer and he made himself comfortable on Harry's sofa, while Ginny finished primping herself. Weasley arrived and they engaged in a game of chess.

Ron was uncharacteristically silent, as was Harry. The mood was somber. Draco knew there was a cumbersome secret and the tension built upon it. He could only wait for one of them to tell him.

It was Ron. "I think you should know that Hermione is bringing a date."

Draco raised an eyebrow and gulped. "That's fine." He glanced at Harry's concerned visage. "I'm fine."

"Just sayin' mate." Ron shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. "I'm glad you are going though."

"Yeah." But Draco was wondering if he could handle that she had moved on. That she was experiencing a new life without him. He had heard that the moon didn't really orbit the earth. As it caused the ocean tides, the tides, in turn, gave a gravitational torque that pushed the moon off its course. So it was coiling around the Earth and in tens of thousands of millions of years it would spiral away, only to be swallowed by the vast Galaxy. Hermione was his moon. Inadvertently they had pushed away from each other.

Ginny announced that she was ready to leave and saved him from such depressing thoughts.

Draco knew it wouldn't be easy. He prepared himself for it. But to witness the wonderment that was Hermione was supposed to be worth it.

He knew her, she would bring along some transitional peon that was a complete bore that Draco and Blaise would undoubtedly ridicule.

He could take that. What he couldn't take was her arriving late, looking incredibly beautiful in that simple way that only she could possess on the arm of the one bloke Draco couldn't stand the sight of.

Zacharias Smith.

Despite the devastating fury and resentment that roared in his ribcage, he managed a polite smile when the couple came past to greet the others.

However it did not rescind his need to size Smith up warily, distrustfully.

Harry and Ginny moved off with Hermione and Smith to mingle, but Draco was grateful that Blaise stood on his right and Pansy and Weasley on his left.

"Where's your girl, Blaise?" Draco inquired blandly.

"I'm not sure. What time did your mum say she was going to arrive?" Blaise returned and sipped from his tumbler.

"She would have been here already but she had to pick your mum up from the street corner." A tiny smirk corner Draco's mouth, but his eyes never left Hermione. Gods she looked amazing. A simple grey cotton wrap dress and her unruly curls falling unhindered about her shoulders and down her back. Her minimal make-up only enhanced a few features and didn't overpower them. This was his Hermione. As he always wanted her to be. Except not on the arm of a starved orangutan. He glanced to his left and Weasley was whispering something to Pansy. She giggled and poked him softly in the side.

Draco goggled, his jaw suddenly loose on the hinges. "You two are shagging!"

Pansy's face turned bright pink, but Weasley merely shrugged, "Not this moment, mate, but I plan on banging her into my floorboards later."

Pansy slapped Ron playfully in the stomach, and he smiled at her adoringly as he rested his arm over her shoulders, and pressed a kiss to her hairline.

Draco asked Blaise if he was aware of the relationship and Blaise nodded, "I'm just grateful I'm not ordered to keep my mouth shut anymore."

Draco glanced back to newly established couple and saw Ron pull Pansy close and lay loud, open mouth kisses on her cheeks, making her giggle ridiculously.

A look of confusion and slight repugnance crossed Draco's face. "It's weird!"

"I know. And loud. Always loud." Blaise sucked at the straw of his drink and scanned the crowd, dutifully ignoring the lecherous couple.

Draco chortled. "Listen, a bloke drinking fire whiskey from a straw is kind of ponce-y."

"I knew you'd like it." Blaise ignored Draco's advice and only smirked.

In the midst of realizing that Pansy and Ron was a couple, and putting down Blaise's drinking technique, Draco had lost sight of Hermione.

His jealousy had quelled, but compunction reared its head, and Draco wished he had paid more attention to her. Told her she was lovely. That he missed her.

"I hate Smith," Blaise said randomly.

Draco's head snapped up and he followed Blaise's line of sight.

There they were, chatting gaily with the Potters and Seamus.

Draco sneered. "Yeah, he's a foul git."

"He's got pilfering hands." Blaise set his drink down and tapped Draco, "Want another?"

"I'm fine," he said, but he really wasn't. Draco stood and his silvery gaze was fixed on Zacharias Smith's hovering hand, only inches from the subtle curve of Hermione's hip.

Draco's jaw tightened, his teeth gnashing together and angry magic prickled at his palm causing his glass tumbler to crack, preparing to shatter. The disgusted sneer on his face dared Smith to touch her.

As if Smith sensed Draco's thoughts, he glanced up at Draco, smiled wryly, and smoothed his hand over Hermione's hip, skimming delicately above her bum until his fingertips came to rest at the small of her back.

It was intimate and possessive.

Blood red murder blurred Draco's vision and he blindly slammed his tumbler on the bartop, his muscles were stiff with hatred as he marched across the room.

He had every intention on introducing Smith to his fist, but instead, he yanked Smith's arm off Hermione, twisted her around and threw her over his shoulders.

She immediately began to protest fervently, pummeling his back with her tiny fists and kicking her stilettos in a hectic attempt to make contact with his stomach. Luckily she was unsuccessful.

"Put me down! You sociopath!" she screeched.

But he silently refused, his only purpose was to take her back to the cottage and make her his again. Over and over until she never wanted anyone else forever.

Pushing her insane curls out of her face with her for arm, Hermione tried to calm her nerves. A thrill clutched at her heart, only to duel with the fierce anger pounding at her stomach. So Plan C worked. Big Deal. If she knew this was going to be the outcome, she might have spared herself the abuse.

Not only did she have to tolerate Zacharias' greasy flirtations, but now she was being carried away, quite unceremoniously, without an explanation at all. Uncouth, is what it was, and galloping Godric, his effing shoulder was sharp against her abdomen.

She had to get out of this. He was soundless and seething, ignoring her pleas and frustrating her more. But then she noticed her gypsy handbag was flapping against his arse, still attached to her person.

She grinned. Her wand was in her bag.

Ceasing her resistance, she slowly pulled the bag up by the straps and plunged her hand into it until she felt the cool vine wood of her magic conductor. She pulled it from the bag, pointed it at his feet and yelled, "Transducio!"

Immediately his body lurched forward, his grip weakened considerably causing him to nearly drop her. Hermione took that opportunity and struggled over his shoulder, sliding down his torso until her feet found purchase on the wet cobblestone pavement.

"My feet! Sweet bearded mermaid! I can't move my feet!" He raged, using his hands to yank at his unmoving appendages. "It's as if I'm glued to the spot!" Draco said exasperatedly, his eyebrows were lifted in a furious scowl.

"Yes, that was very much the intention of the maneuver." Hermione said as she fondly examined her wand, "One does try so hard in life on an intellectual slash conversational level, but sometimes it's just not possible."

"Release me, Granger." He growled threateningly.

"No. What is your purpose of manhandling me?" She put her fist on her hip.

"Manhandle? You are deluded. I was not manhandling you. That ass hat Smith was pawing at you like a burrowing Niffler."

"Draco…" Her voice was fat full of warning.

"Hermione…," he sang back.

"Honestly, I don't understand you! You want nothing to do with me, but the minute I began to enjoy myself, you show interest." Her lips pursed as she sniffed with displeasure. "Extreme interest at that."

"Yeah, well—"

"I'm not your girlfriend anymore." Her eyebrows rose emphatically

"May I remind you that _you_," he threw out his forefinger at her, directing the blame appropriately because he'd be damned if he was going to accept the role of the bad guy when it was only her and him speaking, "demoted yourself, _I_ had merely accepted _your_ wishes."

"Because you didn't love me." She spat deprecatingly.

"How do you know?"

"Because you don't love anything!" She screeched, throwing her hands in the air.

"Oi!" he scoffed, considerably affronted, "That is not true!"

"Really? Prove me wrong. Name something you love." She folded her arms over her chest and her visage became incredibly serious and smug.

He didn't even need a moment to think, "I love the Chesterfield."

Hermione's jaw dropped in disbelief, "It's just a sofa."

"I. Love. It." He bit out through clenched teeth, enhancing his point by poking his thumb roughly into his sternum with each word. "It's unique and comfortable and we have loads in common. For example, the Chesterfield and I both enjoy farting."

She rolled her eyes, because she couldn't see his point, and as far as she was concerned his entire diatribe was silly and senseless.

"If the Chesterfield wanted new throw pillows, I'd buy them. If it needed a new view, I'd move it. Whatever it wanted I would give it. I want it to be a mountain for my children to conquer and to comfort them when they are restful. And when it's careworn and lumpy I will cherish it still for all the memories it gave me."

He was absolutely off his rocker. "What!?" She yelled in her confusion, she really did not see what the Chesterfield had to do with their relationship, or lack there of. It was almost as if he was comparing his outrageous affection for the furniture to that of another human being. Suddenly comprehension dawned on her, "Oh," she whispered, blinking rapidly in astonishment. "You love the Chesterfield."

"Yes."

"Y—you love me!" A smile broke her face and her brown eyes lit up until they were sparkling with tears.

"I do."

Tingly happiness surged her nerves, making her warm and mindless, and before she could control herself she flew to him, throwing herself into his arms.

Draco wobbled dangerously, but managed to steady himself as he wrapped his arms tightly around her body. All he cared about in that moment was swallowing her into himself again.

"I love the Carlton House desk." She murmured before she crushed her mouth to his.

"I know." He smiled against her mouth.

She nuzzled his nose and pressed her forehead against his brow, "Let's go to the cottage and make some more things to love."

"Sure thing my pretty apple, but first unglue my feet."

She giggled and apologized before waving her wand at his shoes.

Then they Disapparated to the quaint cottage where they lived happily ever after.

Draco, Hermione, and the Oxford Chesterfield.

_fin_

_I'd like to thank my beta's: moxicrimefightr, floorcoaster, and spadul. Each of you is amazing, wacky and everything a narcissistic writer such as me could wish for. I am totally and completely the luckiest kid ever because I have the most brilliant team to help me achieve this goal. Thank you for indulging me. And to all the readers, reviewers and those who alerted and/or favorited this story, you will never know the depths of my gratitude! I appreciate each and every one of you. You feed my soul and my cup runneth over._


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